The Game is On
by WhoLockHead11
Summary: Sherlock and John at Hogwarts! The competition is running high and the last game of the season is upon them...Will their interhouse friendship cause problems in the upcoming match? And then the incidents start; 50 years before Harry... Sherlock and John take it upon themselves to find the culprit, but he's cleverer than they anticipated.
1. Chapter 1

_**A.N: Hey! This has moved from my other fic because it's ended up with too much going on and waay too many chapters to be called a short story/One-shot. So now it's a fic all of its own! I'll be trying to update frequently…Please review, it's so amazing when you do **_

John slid into his seat next to Sherlock slightly out of breath. He'd just had to hurry his way down the thousands of stairs between divination and transfiguration, and to make matters worse, Peeves had been toppling suits of armour in one of the fifth floor corridors forcing John to take a detour and making him very almost late for class.

'I take it Trelawney foresaw something terrible again?'

'Yup, yes she did. How could you tell?'

'You always come from divination slightly more ruffled when she has informed you of your impending doom. You took off your jersey because of the heat up there, when you put it back on you weren't careful, your collar is still tucked in and part of the shirt is sticking out the bottom.'

'Oh.' John coughed self-consciously under Sherlock's examination and hurriedly fixed his uniform.

Professor McGonagall coughed pointedly in their direction and the two straightened, giving her their full attention.

After McGonagall's introduction and the hand-out of the white rabbits the class was supposed to be turning into gloves, Sherlock muttered,

'So what's going to happen to you this time?

'Ha! You'll never get this one.' John grinned. The taller boy raised his eyebrows then began looking at him carefully.

'You've taken it more to heart than usual so it must be something that means something to you. You don't really have any possessions that you are highly attached to, you're also not _that_ close to your family. That means it must be happening to yourself, and it must be something painful otherwise you wouldn't have cared so much. Am I right?'

'You're spot on that I was thinking about it more…' Sherlock grinned victoriously. 'But…'

'What? What did I get wrong?'

'It wasn't about me.'

'It wasn't about you…how…'

'Cos it was you.' Said John triumphantly. 'Told you you'd never get it.'

'Me? Doing what?'

'Jumping off the Astronomy Tower.' He explained. Sherlock looked at him in confusion.

'Why does that affect you more than the many times she's 'seen' _you_ dying?'

John suddenly looked uncomfortable. 'Cos, well. I don't… want you to?' He squinted at Sherlock's left ear. The latter gave him a once over then turned and promptly turned his rabbit into a fashionable pair of black silk gloves.

'How did you know not to take blasted divination anyway?' John scowled, 'I remember you advised me last year.' Advised was taking it a bit far as Sherlock had stated baldly: _divination is a woolly, pointless study with no basis in fact or science. Only emotional, impressionable idiots would take it next year. _

The two had been poring over their timetables in the library and John was at a loss at what to pick; Sherlock had immediately decided on Ancient Runes and Care of Magical creatures, he then proceeded to explain why the other two options, Muggle Studies and Divination were completely useless. _Dull and tedious John. _Contrary to the Ravenclaw's thoughts, John had put down Divination with the idea that it sounded vaguely interesting and couldn't be _that_ bad. He also picked Care of Magical Creatures as he quietly agreed with Sherlock's evaluation of Muggle Studies and thought Ancient Runes looked far too damn hard to be bothered with.

Turning to his own rabbit he managed to grab it around the middle just before it made a daring leap to freedom out of the window, pulling it back over the desk toward him he held it firmly with one hand and pointed his wand directly into its wide, reproachful eyes. Muttering the incantation under his breath he flicked his wand at the rabbit, with a quiet _pop_ it transformed into a suspiciously furry pair of white, winter mittens.

'Not quite up to your usual John.'

'Oh shut up.' He glowered, then looking at his work again he muttered, 'Actually, these could do quite well.'

-oOo-

The sky was a dark, gun-metal grey. Between the curtains of sleet John fought to keep his broom steady in the howling gale, he gripped his Nimbus 2001 with one fluffy mitten-enclosed hand and was clutching his beaters bat in the other. He peered through the hail, grimacing as the icy slush slowly wound its way down the inside of his Quidditch robes. Barely able to see the red blurs that were his team mates, his reactions were being tested to the max whenever the lone Bludger they were practising with came near, he had absolutely no clue how poor Harvey was going to find the Snitch in this weather.

When the team finally half fell off their brooms into the ankle deep mud an hour later, John's hands were the only part of him that could be safely classified as fine, the rest of him was frozen to the bone, completely saturated and he had lost all feeling in his ears, nose and feet a good half an hour ago. Bent double, the team staggered their way through the violent storm back toward the castle, John couldn't even tell between his team mates the barrage was so thick.

As John stumbled his way into the entrance hall, hair and robes plastered to his skin, he noticed Sherlock striding out of the Great hall. He forced his numb limbs over to him, shaking his sodden hair like a dog.

'Sherlock! Have you b-been in there since d-dinner?' He questioned disbelievingly.

'Obviously. I was reading.' The taller boy waved a thick, dog-eared volume of _Advanced Potion-Making _at John.

'Isn't th-that a sixth year's b-book? Where did you g-get it?'

'Nicked it. It's more interesting than our one.'

'N-nicked it? Yeah…right, ok.'

'Well, looks like you had fun.' Said Sherlock sarcastically, stepping backward as John dripped dangerously close to his shoes.

'I feel l-like I've b-been swimming in the l-lake.' John stammered, quivering like a leaf. The entrance hall felt like a sauna after the gale outside and he could almost feel his ears again.

'I have to say I don't envy you, my captain doesn't force us out in weather like this.'

'Ha. Well that depends on the weather of our game on Saturday, it's supposed to be like this so we'll see whose laughing then.' John smirked. Sherlock pouted. 'I'm going to go have a bath before any of my toes fall off.' Said John, 'Bloody Ashton just keeps going on about how we need to train to the conditions, I really don't think he quite understands how important it is that I have all my extremities.'

Sherlock snickered. 'It's good that you have such a dedicated captain.'

'Yes, well that's one way you could look at it. I'll see you in Charms.' John nodded at Sherlock and clapped him on the shoulder causing the latter to leap back into a pillar, hitting his elbow sharply.

'Ah, ow.'

'Sorry! I'm so used to the wet I keep forgetting. Maybe old Ashton's trying to turn us into frogs!' With that John turned and squelched his way up the marble staircase, leaving an impressive trail of water and mud behind him. Sherlock turned away rubbing his elbow and strode off through a door pretending to be a wall, he hoped the weather would clear up a bit, the cold tended to go straight through him; maybe he could borrow John's new mittens, although how he would be able to catch the Snitch in them he didn't know.

_**Thanks for reading! Please review – even one word is awesome **_


	2. Chapter 2

The sleet hammered at the windows of Gryffindor tower, inside the fire roared and the sound of paper rustling and quills scratching was all that could be heard. The fifth years had their OWLs upon them and were studying anxiously. The feverish page turning and mumblings of spells was interrupted only by the odd harried student rushing out of the portrait hole to the library. John, fresh from his bath, tiptoed around the edge of the room toward the stairs up to his dormitory, only a fourth year he glanced around in trepidation. Earning a red-eyed glare for nudging the corner of a table he hurried up to the safety of his dorm.

'Hey John, how was that for a practise eh?' laughed a dark haired boy sprawled on the bed next to his.

'Great. Absolutely great. Did you manage to find the Snitch?'

'Na. But then I could hardly see the rest of you. It was more like a practise on how to stay on your broom when a ton of water is being dumped on you.' Grimaced the seeker. 'Did you get the bludger?'

'Only twice, in an hour and a half I only hit it twice. God it was terrible. I reckon it was having issues keeping on course in the wind.' John had changed into his pyjamas by then and was climbing under his covers. 'It's gunna be bloody awful if the game's like this.' He said glumly, peering at the dark, rain splattered window.

'At least we've had more practise in the conditions.'

'Yeah, so we know just how hopeless it is trying to play.'

'Do you think there's a chance it'll be cancelled?'

'I dunno. They never cancel Quidditch, apart from that time when we were first years and it was a complete white-out blizzard.' John looked at the window again. 'And this isn't _quite_ as bad as that was.' The other boy snorted and rolled his blankets tightly around himself muttering a goodnight. John lay on his side with the covers pulled up to his chin, he watched the raindrops slide down the window in zigzagging paths and listened to the storm outside. He was warm and dry and felt very content lying there in his soft feather bed, soon he was drifting off, his thoughts about Saturday's match morphing into a dream involving four Bludgers, a mermaid and a synchronised swimming Sherlock.

-oOo-

'Bored.'

'Uhuh.'

'You're doing it wrong.'

'Shuddup.'

'Fine.' The dark haired boy sank at his desk until only the top of his curls were showing. They were sitting at the back of the charms classroom, close to one of the flickering fire places; Professor Flitwick always kept his room toasty and it was a welcome respite from the rest of the chilly castle. Winter was making itself felt and it hadn't even snowed yet, both Sherlock and John were wearing extra jerseys under their school robes and Sherlock had been complaining that John's hand-knitted, lilac jumper was too embarrassing to be worn. 'It makes you look like a teddy bear or something.' He had hissed.

'Oh come on! You can't even see it under my robes. And besides, it's warm.' This had earned a sigh of consternation from Sherlock who obviously believed style came before practicality.

Looking down at the top of Sherlock's head, John raised his eyebrows and then returned his focus to the cushion sitting a few feet away.

'Accio.' He said, flicking his wand. The cushion shot across the distance and hit him hard in the face. A snigger came from down near his elbow; rubbing his nose, John grabbed the cushion, grinned evilly, and thumped it down on the dark curls. The owner of the curls jumped, spluttering with arms and legs everywhere, hitting the desk and falling back into his chair robes askew. This time it was John who sniggered. Professor Flitwick gave the pair a reproving glare and they hurriedly attempted to look like they were working, Sherlock elbowing John painfully under the table where Flitwick wouldn't see.

'You bastard.' John muttered, rubbing his side where Sherlock had dug a pointy elbow.

'You started it.' He whispered back looking at John slyly. John snorted.

'You're like a toddler.'

'At least I can Summon properly.'

'Prat.'

'Shorty.'

John looked at him unhappily. 'That's below the belt.' Sherlock just smirked triumphantly. 'Fine then. We're resorting to personal remarks. _Skinny_.' Sherlock looked at him haughtily and turned his back. 'See, now you're sulking.' The taller wizard didn't deign to reply. For the rest of the lesson they sat in silence, John used the time to practise his summoning while Sherlock perfected his pout.

When Charms ended they went separate ways, John to Defence Against the Dark Arts, Sherlock to Potions. The latter had considerably brightened; Potions was probably his favourite subject and he always looked forward to descending the stone steps to the dim, fume-filled dungeon.

'See you after lunch. It's going to be hell out there.' John gestured out of the window into the swirling rain and mist.

'Professor Kettleburn will be taking us into the forest again, I'd take gloves if I were you.'

John groaned. 'Damn. It's gunna be freezing. I'll have to eat something really hot for lunch.' He nodded at Sherlock. 'You should too.' The Ravenclaw gave a noncommittal grunt and bounded away down the icy steps with barely concealed glee. Grinning at his friend's back, John shook his head and made his way to class, fighting through the busy hallways toward the centre of the castle. He hoped Professor Merrythought would let them do a practical today, it was too bloody cold to sit at a desk and write.

-oOo-

Tucking into his hearty beef stew, John looked up and down the Ravenclaw table for Sherlock, he wasn't there. Again. Sighing, he took a fortifying gulp of tea as the enchanted ceiling churned in time with the thunder rumbling outside. This was going to be a terrible Care of Magical Creatures lesson, at least in the forest they would be protected from the icy wind. He was concerned about Sherlock, he shouldn't be going out in this weather with no lunch, especially as he was so skinny anyway. John shook himself mentally, he didn't need to be worrying over him like this, there was enough tension between them due to the match and it wouldn't do to add any, even if it did really bother him. So instead, he attempted to transfer the worry to the complications the weather was going to create in tomorrow's match.

Sherlock was already there when John and his fellow Gryffindor's struggled into the relative safety of the forest. Having cast the impervious charm around himself, Sherlock was reasonably dry compared to the bedraggled blonde who also happened to look rather annoyed. The Ravenclaw cocked an eyebrow at him questioningly.

'You're disappointed that I didn't have lunch.' He stated. The shorter boy's expression flickered momentarily, turning from anger to shocked amazement then quickly back to annoyance. Sherlock couldn't restrain his smirk at how John still showed admiration even when considerably irritated. The smirk didn't help John though; it looked as though his resolution to keep quiet about the taller's eating habits was forgotten. How Sherlock always managed to bring up the touchiest issue with such lack of care John didn't know, but it definitely irritated him immensely. Standing to his full height he fixed Sherlock with an icy glare.

'Yes. You disappointed me.' With that he turned away and went to stand with the huddled Gryffindors, not giving a backward glance. They studiously ignored each other all lesson.

Sherlock was angry. Pacing backward and forward in a disused classroom on the third floor he snorted. Who was John Watson to tell him what to do? What did the idiot think he was…His mother? He snorted again. Not likely. But the annoying thing was, he had actually made Sherlock feel guilty, he actually felt like he had done something wrong. Sherlock knew that John hated it when he skipped meals, but seeing as it was none of his business he had never done anything about it, and why should he? John was just a friend, that didn't mean he had to change to please him. And the bastard had no right to make him feel guilty like this, even if he was to tell the truth, Sherlock's only friend. Well, Sherlock wasn't going to try and talk to him, it wasn't like John was that important, and he better not be expecting any friendliness in tomorrow's match. Still feeling slightly ashamed and even angrier for it, Sherlock strode out of the room and off to his dormitory; he was going to beat John tomorrow, or die trying.

Up in Gryffindor tower, John wriggled in his four-poster trying to get comfortable. He was still pissed at Sherlock, but he now felt like an idiot for confronting him like that, there was no way it would have done any good. It was just the way he had smirked in his face when he _knew_ how much John hated him not eating. It was like him saying: Yes, I know you don't like me doing this but I'm going to do it anyway _and_ rub it in your face. He really wished the Ravenclaw would look after himself, and it was surely obvious he was only trying to help, like any good friend. That was probably the problem, Mr Sherlock_ I can do everything myself, I don't need friends_ Holmes wouldn't want help, he strived to be alone and independent. John hoped that Sherlock would talk to him tomorrow, or at least let John talk at him. His stomach lurched – the match! Oh God, he better not do anything stupid the drama queen. He knew Sherlock would do anything to win tomorrow, to prove to John he was fine and needed nobody. If Sherlock lost…That didn't bear thinking about. John was wide awake now, he didn't know what to do, Gryffindor needed to win and he couldn't let inter-house relationships get in the way, even if it was Sherlock. He knew the Ravenclaw wouldn't be making any exceptions for him but still…He just hoped that it wouldn't come to conflict, that he wouldn't have to pick.

_**A.N: Oooh! The game will be coming next… Someone's going to end up in the Hospital Wing but I'm not telling yet. Please review!**_


	3. Chapter 3

Both Sherlock and John woke early, it was still dark and the wind could be heard screaming around their respective towers, thankfully the hail sounded as if it had turned to rain, it wouldn't be quite as painful but it was certainly going to be a wet one.

Sherlock dressed quietly, grabbed his broom and copy of _Numerology and Grammatica, _and sprawled over a chair in the deserted Ravenclaw common room immersing himself the book. In the Gryffindor common room, John sat hunched in the armchair closest to the grate. He stared into the embers feeling sick with worry and wishing the game would be cancelled. The rain beat down mercilessly on the Castle and it's grounds.

Later, when the rumblings of students waking up echoed overhead, Sherlock looked up from his book. The common room was still dim but the world outside had changed from black to dark, dull grey. He stood up, stretched and yawned, then tucking his broomstick under one arm and book under the other he sauntered out of the room and made his way down to the Great Hall. He thought he'd have some toast, for energy, and he should have finished digesting by Eleven as it was, he checked his watch, Seven o'clock in the morning. Hopefully, seeing as it was early, he would be avoiding meeting John as well.

By Eight o'clock, the rest of John's team-mates had joined him in the common room. Harvey, their seeker was staring out the window at the rain lashed grounds miserably and tapping his fingers nervously; Ashton the captain sat gazing at his own hands, his face as white as a sheet. In contrast, the three chasers seemed quite at ease, Molly and Courtney had initially grimaced at the weather but were now chatting quite happily about the available boys on the Ravenclaw team. John pricked up his ears at the sound of Sherlock's name.

'Ooh yes… He's definitely one of the hottest, I mean just look at those cheekbones.' Courtney said dreamily.

'Yes but he's just so… you know, scary almost.' Mumbled Molly. Courtney didn't seem to hear her.

'And he's so tall, and lean, with his cute little curls. God, I wish I was in Ravenclaw.' John almost smiled, the thought of Sherlock's expression when John would tell him what the girls had said was highly amusing, then he remembered they weren't really on talking terms at the moment and felt the nerves and worry swallow him again.

Hugo the third chaser and Greg, John's fellow beater were discussing tactics, Hugo seemed perfectly at ease but Greg kept glancing at the window anxiously. He gave John a look.

'You alright John? Not looking too good.' Asked Greg. 'Is it cos of Holmes?' He added sympathetically.

John gave a funny movement between a nod and a shrug, not trusting his voice. Greg seemed to understand, turning to the Captain he said, 'Should we go down to breakfast?' Ashton nodded and leapt up, shaking slightly. The team filed out of the common room and went down to the Great Hall.

The Great Hall was almost completely deserted, only a few early birds and a couple of the Ravenclaw team were there. It took up all of John's resolve not to look for Sherlock as he sat down and attempted to eat some toast, today he had to think of Sherlock as nothing but an enemy team member, this was the deciding game and he was determined not to mess it up. After half an hour or so, people began trickling down from their respective common rooms, the noise level increased rapidly as excited spectators chattered loudly. John barely heard the 'Good Luck's or the felt the pats on his back, the rest of the team also seemed oblivious and were staring nervously around themselves. Finally, Ashton stood up with a clatter of cutlery and announced, 'Team! Changing rooms now.'

The Gryffindor's trooped out to a mixture of cheers and boos, John couldn't help glancing at the Ravenclaw table but either couldn't see Sherlock in all the crowd or the Seeker wasn't there. In the safety of the Changing room the Gryffindor's removed their clothes which were completely drenched after just the run down from the castle, and stepped into their Quidditch robes.

'Ok.' Ashton cleared his throat and looked around at the team meaningfully. 'This, we have to win. There is no problem with point margins, it's going to be a clear-cut race for the snitch. So you all know your jobs. This game will probably have the most fouls of the season because we are going to do anything, anything we can to stop that boy getting the Snitch.' He took a deep breath then let it out rather shakily.' Hugo, Molly and Courtney, score as many as you can to try and reach the 150 mark as protection. But also keep your eyes on their Seeker, block him, foul him, knock him off if you have to, but _don't_ let him catch that Snitch.' The three chasers nodded seriously, John's stomach clenched painfully.

'John and Greg. Hit every single bludger you can find at Holmes. This is going to be a very dirty game but on no account must you chicken out of a hit. Is that understood?' Ashton looked at John closely, calculating. 'John. Do you know anything about how Holmes flies? Does he have any key moves or tendencies? We need anything that might give us an advantage.' John swallowed nervously and tried to think. He was just an enemy Seeker, it wasn't betrayal, it was using knowledge to ensure a win.

'He…he dodges downward. And relies on speed over tricks, he'll be most vulnerable to group attacks, if two of us go to block him he'll have trouble.' John blocked the guilty part of himself in a corner of his brain and walled it off, then thinking tactically it became a lot easier to describe Sherlock's flying patterns. 'Watch for his feints, and Harvey,' He pointed at the seeker, 'If you stick close to him he'll get annoyed, hopefully that will distract him and if we're lucky make him sloppy.' John grinned. 'Oh, and he'll be off-guard around me as he expects me to avoid him and shy away from any conflict.' He laughed grimly. 'But he's got that wrong.' John's mind-frame had changed, if Sherlock was going to play it like this then John was going to bloody well play it like that too, there would be no weakness, and god was John _ready_.

In the Ravenclaw Changing room the Captain was briefing his team, he pointed at Sherlock. 'They know that you're better than their Seeker, therefore they'll be playing dirty. So our top priority is to protect Sherlock, it's going to be a race for the snitch and we _need_ to win.' He glared around the room an unearthly glow in his eyes, 'We need to win.' He repeated. Sherlock was staring out of the window looking bored. He wasn't sure what John was going to do, it was so frustrating how he somehow always managed to do what Sherlock hadn't expected. He was fairly sure this time that John would be split, he was always a loyal type so it seemed natural that he would be struggling with which side to stand. To be completely honest, Sherlock was slightly nervous now; with the pounding rain, high winds and the knowledge that every player out there was going to be focussed on him for good or bad he was feeling quite tense. The likelihood that he would be in the hospital wing tonight was hovering around 74% and you couldn't ignore numbers.

The rest of the team was getting up around Sherlock, it must be time. Keeping his face carefully blank he stood, gripping his broomstick until his knuckles showed white. He felt a gentle pat on his back, and scowled momentarily, he didn't need any sympathy, he was fine. They stepped out into the storm. The change in temperature was like a physical blow and almost instantly Sherlock felt thoroughly drenched, he could see the Gryffindors staggering toward the centre of the pitch and could even tell which was John so the visibility didn't seem too bad. But John didn't look worried at all, in contrast he looked happy, in a grim sort of way. Sherlock's gut lurched anxiously, the Ravenclaw closed his eyes for a moment, he wasn't scared, he didn't get scared, he was going to win this match because no one could stop him, Sherlock was ready for this and he was the best. His eyes flew open and he smiled wickedly; The Game, was _on_.

_**A.N: The game is next I promise! I just was writing what was happening before and it ended up as like a whole chapter…But I'm almost finished the match so it will be here very very soon! Please Review!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A.N: The Game! Thank you so much to Iron Mikan Frost-Elric-Uzumaki and Morgana Winchester for their reviews, you guys are fantastic! **_

_**Enjoy **_

They were in the air, the whistle had blown and the fourteen players rocketed up into the swirling rain and wind. Immediately, Sherlock was aware of the Gryffindor Seeker shadowing his movements; accelerating through the sheets of rain he shot around the Ravenclaw goalposts and tested the reactions of his counterpart, he was quick but committed himself too easily to moves. Storing this information, Sherlock swiftly decided on which course to take. Highly aware of all the eyes upon him, players and spectators alike he circled like a hawk above the main game for a few moments, then, when the Gryffindor Seeker was close to him and the Bludgers were at opposite ends of the pitch Sherlock made his feint. He dived suddenly, looking as if the Snitch had been spotted near the centre line. Unable to hear the commentary through the high winds, John only noticed the Seekers when he made a sharp turn, flying to meet the Bludger coming in his direction. Narrowing his eyes, John grasped his bat firmly and sent the heavy Bludger speeding directly at the Ravenclaw Seeker, noticing the heavy ball at the last moment, Sherlock dipped his broom and dodged. Grinning, he didn't spare John a glance and still diving toward the earth at a high speed he threw a look over his shoulder, the other Seeker was hot on his tail, determined to stop Sherlock catching the Snitch.

When John had hit the Bludger, one of the Ravenclaw beaters had swung the other ball toward him. With this second Bludger now rocketing toward him, John changed his angle slightly, then, taking a massive swing at the incoming ball he deflected it directly toward Sherlock again. He could not be allowed to get the Snitch. The Seekers were now neck and neck, pushing and shunting each other, Harvey managed to get slightly ahead and turned, effectively blocking Sherlock. The Ravenclaw Seeker dodged down, his attention was focussed singularly on Harvey so Sherlock failed to notice the second Bludger until it powered into the side of his head. Pain exploded in his right cheek and temple as he was rolled over in mid-air from the force of the hit; struggling to stay on his broom, Sherlock blinked away the blackness impairing his vision and glared across the rain drenched pitch at John. He growled, blood from his lip dripping down his face.

The Gryffindor Chasers were a league ahead of the opposition, goal after goal was scored against the Ravenclaw's with only a few getting through the defence in return. The Chasers of both teams were more focussed on the two seekers than scoring though, and the fouls got steadily worse as the game progressed. Sherlock was now not the only player with a bloodied face, he was still the most battered though, the elbows and kicks were taking their toll and his face was twisted into a permanent grimace of pain and determination.

50ft of the ground, in the driving rain, the two seekers were scuffling for the advantage, the Snitch was evading them and the attention of the other twelve players was making it difficult to get a glimpse of the elusive golden ball. Confused by the sudden absence of the Gryffindor seeker on his shoulder, Sherlock spun in mid-air, his stomach dropped as he saw the red and gold blur speeding away from him toward the Gryffindor goalposts; it could only be the Snitch. Leaning down on his broom, Sherlock accelerated after him; out of the corner of his eye he could see the three red chasers coming in to intercept him. Both teams were now singularly focussed on the two seekers. One of the Ravenclaw beaters hit a Bludger at Harvey, the seeker was too busy keeping his eyes on the Snitch and didn't see the Bludger until it was too late. Almost knocked off his broom, Harvey lost sight of the golden ball and yelled in frustration. John, seeing all this flew to intercept the other Bludger while Sherlock attempted to dodge the chasers who had closed in on him. Two of them managed to pin him and the third was preparing to block him from ahead, struggling futilely between them he grasped his broom tightly in anticipation of the coming collision - this was going to hurt. Just as Sherlock had squeezed his eyes shut, two blue chasers came to back him up and collided instead with the red chasers, almost knocking all five of them out of the air; this allowed Sherlock through although a stray elbow had nailed into his gut winding him and making him crouch over his broom in pain. Flying hunched, he caught up to Harvey who had just recovered and elbowing each other they flew straight toward the right hand goalpost that was looming out of the mist, a glimmer of gold could be seen dancing around the top hoop. Seeing the post ahead Sherlock's eyes widened in shock, with a loud grunt, he pulled his broom to the side. Harvey was too late, he cannoned directly into the post and dropped unconscious to the ground. Sherlock hadn't managed to avoid the post completely and had hit the uninjured side of his head on the metal ring. Groaning through gritted teeth and straining to keep conscious as blood trickled from the wound on his temple, he latched his eyes onto the Snitch and failed to see the Gryffindor keeper, Ashton, reaching out toward him. Ashton made a grab for the seeker's boot and in desperation pulled him away from the Snitch and around into the path of the Bludger John had just hammered toward them. The heavy ball slammed into the back of his dark curls, cracking his head forward just as the slim, white fingers closed around the Snitch. The combined unbalances of Ashton's grab and the lunge Sherlock had just made caused the seeker to slip off his broom as he succumbed to the blackness and land in the goal hoop, suspended 25ft above the ground by his waist. He seemed to have been knocked out moments after catching the Golden Snitch.

The roar of the crowd could barely be heard but it seemed the school knew the game was over, that Ravenclaw had won. All the Gryffindors except John and Ashton sagged on their brooms and descended slowly to earth; the other two were racing to grab Sherlock with the rest of his team mates before he fell from his precarious position. His long, thin body drooped limply from the goal, robes and hair whipping about him, hands swinging slightly in the gale. Only seconds before John had reached the lifeless body, a massive gust of wind caused the blue robes to fill with air, acting like a sail they shifted Sherlock's body marginally forward so his head tipped further, unbalancing the delicate equilibrium. Almost in slow-motion he slid forward and then slipped from the wet metal entirely, falling head-first. Robes billowing out like wings, Sherlock's slim figure plummeted to earth and landed with a muffled thump in the puddled sand; there he lay completely still, face down, the Golden Snitch still in hand.


	5. Chapter 5

The Hospital wing was quiet. It was evening, and the soft golden lamps illuminated the two boys; one lying motionless, tucked up in a bed, the other hunched beside him, still in his mud-splattered Gryffindor Quidditch robes. Almost every player in the two teams had been through the Hospital Wing that afternoon, the injuries ranging from broken noses and fingers to mild hypothermia (Madam Pomfrey had used up almost all her stock of Pepper-up potion as many of the crowd had been diagnosed with colds and chills.) to concussions and broken ribs. Harvey had been discharged about half an hour ago, his fall had been less debilitating than Sherlock's as he'd still had a hold on his broom. He'd been patched up pretty quick but Madam Pomfrey had wanted to keep him in bed for a few hours in case of complications; now it was only Sherlock left, and he still hadn't regained consciousness. Madam Pomfrey had done her usual magic on the numerous injuries, his broken bones were on the mend and the four types of potion sitting on his nightstand were doing their job.

'Nevertheless, he's in for a painful night.' The Matron had shaken her head and left to her office muttering about the dangers of Quidditch. Even though Sherlock was fully unconscious, he would still moan and shift under the covers as the potions made their burning way through his battered body. Each time the injured Ravenclaw groaned weakly, John would wince, reach out for the pale hand resting upon the covers then withdraw shaking his head. He stared at the patient's face, combing it for signs of lucidness. Eyes travelled down the mass of dressings covering the right side of Sherlock's face, his whole head was wrapped in white bandages except for the nose, left half of the mouth, left eye and cheek, and a few tufts of dark curls. John winced again, remembering how he had hit the two Bludgers which had done most of the damage in front of him. The feeling of wanting to beat Sherlock had left him as soon as he had hit the finishing Bludger, now all that filled him was guilt and shame.

When the differing teachers and students had pleaded with him to change out of his sodden robes, John had been stubbornly silent. He wasn't going to go and have a hot shower and change into warm clothes when Sherlock was lying there beaten up, unconscious and bloody. He needed to punish himself for his gross behaviour and the feeling of victory he'd felt when he first hit the raven-haired seeker early in the game.

Sherlock's agonising moan made John lean over him protectively. The limp body was suddenly ridged, his back arching, hands clawing at the sheets as the groan was forced out between tightly gritted teeth.

'Sherlock! Sherlock can you hear me? It's ok. You're going to be ok, you're alright.' John had his hands on the slim chest, peering worriedly into the bandaged face as he tried to comfort the struggling form beneath him.

Madam Pomfrey had come hurrying out of her office at John's words, she pushed him aside and bent over the writhing figure herself, with one hand she pointed her wand at his chest muttering spells, and the other quickly checked his pulse, temperature and available eye. John stood uselessly to the side peering anxiously over her shoulder, he wished the pain could somehow be transferred to himself, it was unbearable watching his best friend like this.

'J….Jo…ughn.' Sherlock grunted, his chest rising and falling with sharp breaths. John started, it was almost like he was trying to say…No. That was just wishful thinking; that was his guilt talking. The bandage-wrapped head fell onto the pillow and the slim body relaxed back into the bed, Madam Pomfrey turned to John briskly.

'You. Support his head so I can give him the next dose.' Skilfully measuring out some bright orange concoction into a goblet she waved John forward. He gingerly slid a hand under the dark curls, horribly aware of how wet and muddy his clothing was. 'Come on boy! Lift him up.' Awkwardly leaning away so he wouldn't drip on the invalid, John manoeuvred Sherlock's lifeless head up. Madam Pomfrey tipped the slightly steaming liquid smartly into the open mouth, 'Right. Well that should help the pain. But really, fixing twelve broken bones: what do you expect?' She shook her head at John and disappeared back into her office with a clatter of potion bottles.

John looked down at the head he was still cradling, Sherlock looked peaceful now but it was still a wrench seeing the usually animated face and clever eyes still and dull. He lowered the curls back down gently, leaving one hand resting around the top of the Ravenclaw's head. His eyes combed the familiar features, drinking in the sharp angles and soft curves of the angular face; with a start, John noticed he had been absentmindedly stroking Sherlock's uninjured cheek, he froze staring at the pale face. In the pause Sherlock moaned quietly, slowly John touched the pointy cheekbone again, the moan stopped. Staring down, open-mouthed, John continued to trail his fingers from cheekbone to chin and back again. His fingers looked incredibly brown next to Sherlock's silky, white skin, realising what he was doing, John grinned imagining the look on the Ravenclaw's face if he woke up now.

-oOo-

John had been forced out at eight that evening. He had taken a quick shower, changed, and snuck back down to the Hospital Wing around ten. Madam Pomfrey's office was dark along with the rest of the room, creeping over to Sherlock's bed he whispered to himself, 'I'm back.' The shadowy lump shifted and Sherlock's face appeared out from under the sheets. John gaped, 'You're awake!'

'Shhh. You'll wake up Madam Pomfrey.' Hissed the fully conscious Sherlock. 'And obviously I'm awake.' John sank to his knees next to the bed still staring in shock at the curly haired wizard. 'What happened to me? I don't remember how I got here.' Sherlock was peering at him with barely concealed confusion, John blinked remembering how edgy the genius was around things to do with his brain and memory, this was going to be hard to explain. 'John. Tell me what happened.' John swallowed, bracing himself.

'Ok. Well. I hit a Bludger at you.' John couldn't meet the piercing gaze and instead focussed on a tuft of dark hair poking out of Sherlock's bandages.

'Yes. I know _that, _it made my lip bleed. But that doesn't explain why I'm here…Oh. You hit another one at me, yes?' Sherlock didn't wait for John's confirmation. 'And it knocked me out, or made me fall off my broom.' He prodded his bandaged head while he spoke, wincing at the discoveries of bruising.

Looking up warily, John grabbed his arm. 'Don't touch them! You'll make it worse.' Sherlock stared at him, reading the information that John's expression and actions told him and lowered his arm slowly.

'Oh. You hit me…And it was bad. So now you're feeling all guilty and protective. I must have fallen then, how many bones have I broken?' This time John winced.

'Twelve I think she said.' John muttered, letting go of his arm. Sherlock whistled quietly.

'Impressive. So tell me what happened.'

John exhaled slowly. 'You had beaten Harvey to the Snitch so Ashton grabbed your leg and was pulling you away. Yes it was a foul.' He added. 'And I hit a Bludger at you. But because Ashton had grabbed you, when the Bludger knocked you out you fell off your broom. You got stuck in the goal hoop.' Sherlock looked at him incredulously. John glanced at him quickly then carried on. 'You had got the Snitch and so it had finished. We were all flying toward you to get you down, but then you…fell.' John's voice broke slightly on the last word and he rubbed his face in his hands.

'I bet Trelawney was pleased.' Sherlock muttered. John looked at him in confusion. 'Oh you know! That prophecy she made about me falling, remember?'

John chuckled. 'God, she's going to be unbearable.' The uncovered side of Sherlock's mouth lifted up in a grin.

'So. Quite a dramatic match then!? And we beat you.' The Ravenclaw grinned slyly. John nodded silently. Sherlock looked at him in disappointment. 'Seriously? Are you so affected by my _fall_ that you don't care you lost?' Sherlock glared at him, obviously put out that he couldn't crow over John's loss. 'Sentiment. It's always the sentiment.' John chuckled again. 'What.' Hissed Sherlock venomously.

'You're so competitive that you're actually going to be more annoyed that I'm not bothered about the game than the fact that you won, caught the Snitch and finished the game in the most dramatic way possible.' John shook his head laughing quietly. 'You're funny.' Sherlock opened and closed his mouth in silence.

'I'm sorry for being so…' Sherlock paused, not looking at John. 'Difficult.' The injured wizard had suddenly become very interested in the pattern on John's jumper. John stared at him, his mind couldn't seem to process the last few words, had Sherlock Holmes just apologized to him? Peering at the bandaged face John realized he didn't feel any sort of victory at the apology, it wasn't needed, he knew what Sherlock was like and was friends with him anyway, he shouldn't have to say sorry for being himself. Acting on impulse, John leaned forward and placed his arms delicately around the pyjama clad shoulders, resting his head between the rough bandages and soft pillow. The body in his arms froze momentarily and then relaxed into the embrace, an arm snaked around John's torso and gripped the back of his jumper. John tried to put all of his feelings into the hug, his own apology, acceptance and friendship, he wasn't sure if Sherlock would understand though.

They pulled apart. John coughed awkwardly.

'That was…nice.' Said Sherlock quietly. John nodded fervently.

'Yeah.' They looked at each other, then John started to giggle, slapping his hands over his mouth to muffle the sound. Sherlock grinned crookedly at his hyperventilating friend.

'Hell of a way to kill the moment eh?' Then he started to chuckle too.

_**A.N: So that last chapter was a bit mean to Sherlock…But I wanted to write a really dramatic match…so I did. Thank you for the reviews **_**Captain Reddish**_** and **_**Iron Mikan Frost-Elric-Uzumaki****, **_**It's so great to get feedback! **_

_**I'm not sure where to go after this, so here's hoping I get some inspiration soon. Maybe something can happen to John to even out the events a bit… Anyway thanks for reading!**_

_**Oh and Happy New Year!**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A.N: So sorry for the age I've taken to update…very rude. So this is almost like a part two as it could probably be a stand-alone fanfic but I have decided to link it onto this one. Unfortunately that means there are a few irregularities (teacher's names ect, who was at school when the Chamber of Secrets was opened the first time kinda thing) So just bear with Thanks for reading!**_

Sherlock left the Hospital wing the afternoon of the next day. Madam Pomfrey had relented and taken off what he called the 'mummy bandages' after the Ravenclaw had threatened to remove them himself. Now all that remained to show for his experience was a small dressing on his temple, an impressive bruise on his cheekbone, and the winces when he moved too flamboyantly.

'Shame you couldn't have stayed in till tomorrow afternoon.' Said John. Clapping him on the shoulder sympathetically. The taller wizard hummed vaguely.

'I quite like Monday's actually.' He replied thoughtfully a few moments later.

Yeah, I guess we've got two classes together.'

Sherlock looked at him blankly for a second. 'Oh. Yes. Yeah.'

John peered at him. 'Didn't even cross your mind did it? Nope, it's cos you've got double potions.'

'Yes, well initially I thought potions, but you're quite right…' The dark haired wizard coughed. John just shook his head in amused disbelief muttering something about big-brained idiots.

-oOo-

'Sherlock! Where have you been!? Have you heard?' Cried John. The short blonde fought his way through the crowded hall over to him and pulled the taller toward the table. Sherlock glanced around the Great Hall, it seemed everyone was buzzing, something had evidently happened and he had missed it while reading in the library. He gave John a once-over; he was pale, wide-eyed, hands trembling slightly and had a general air of flightiness. Cocking an eyebrow at his friend, Sherlock sat next to him at the Gryffindor table.

'Library. What's happened?' Sherlock had deducted it was something unusual as all the teachers and students were on edge. And obviously the whole school being summoned to the Hall in the middle of the afternoon meant _something_ was going on. He'd had a free period, if he'd had a class it was likely he would know what was going on.

'O'Riley. From Hufflepuff, something happened to him but we don't know what. I overheard it from some of his friends on the way here, it must be bad cos the headmaster's called us all here.' John was peering over Sherlock's head toward the front of the hall. 'Dippet's here!' He exclaimed, sitting up straighter to get a clearer view of the headmaster. Sherlock turned in his seat as well, looking up to the top table. The volume in the Hall decreased so rapidly it was like someone had cast a silencing charm.

Long, midnight-blue robes flowing out behind him, Professor Dippet strode up to the winged lectern. Placing his wizened hands upon the intricately carved wood he cleared his throat. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at this move, was the headmaster attempting to hide trembling hands? A slight feeling of apprehension rose in his stomach followed by excitement, if Professor Dippet was shaken it had to be something…something _very_ bad. And Sherlock was good at bad, bad was fun.

'You have been gathered here because a terrible…incident has occurred.' The Professor stated. Sherlock recognised his tone as that of someone trying to appear unshaken. 'A student, Mr Thomas O'Riley has been…petrified. Now there is no reason for unnecessary fear!' The Headmaster raised his voice against the tide of whispers, mutters and a singular quiet scream. 'It seems the incident is solitary, and fortunately our greenhouses contain a batch of young Mandrake which when ready, will be able to restore the victim. The only instruction I have today is that all students should take care around the castle and heed the new precautions that will be put into place as a result of this.' He looked carefully around the now silent hall. 'It is not known how Mr O'Riley came to be in this state. Therefore any student who thinks they might know anything about what has occurred should speak directly to their Head of House.' There were a few mutters as the Headmaster took breath; Sherlock looked around at John, the latter's eyes were still fixed on the Principle but his forehead was furrowed. 'If prefects could now lead their Houses back to their dormitories. There will be no more lessons today.' Professor Dippet dismissed the school to a few stifled cheers and stepped down from the podium to join the huddle of teachers. Letting himself be pulled out of the Hall by the tide of anxious students, Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, through a gap between two pointy hats he saw the mask of calm slip from the Headmaster's face and be replaced by distress.

A hand grabbed Sherlock's elbow, turning he saw it was John. 'What do you think?' The shorter asked, leaning up to his ear to be heard over the crowd pushing through the double doors.

'Meet me at the usual in half an hour.' Sherlock replied grinning. John nodded, then frowned at him. 'What?'

'Lose the grin mate.'

'Not good?'

John sighed. 'Bit not good.'

_**A.N: Sorry, bit short. More on the way! Please review **_


	7. Chapter 7

_**A.N. Making up for that short chapter…Here's a longer one! And the next should be soon **_

The usual was an unused classroom on the fourth floor. It was rather small and poky with a nasty draught sweeping through the ill-fitting window. There had been a couple of desks and chairs stored in the room, Sherlock and John had unstacked them and now they were standing in the centre of the room forming one long table. The chilly room already looked like a secret laboratory; two cauldrons were perched on the desks, various potion ingredients and utensils were scattered about the room, and numerous textbooks, notebooks and rolls of parchment littered every available surface.

Sherlock had gone straight to the classroom after the Great Hall. He was now sitting leaned back in a chair with his crossed ankles resting upon the table. Hands pressed together under his chin with his eyes closed, it looked as if he was praying. The grey eyes opened to the sound of wood brushing across stone flags; John slipped into the room and shut the door quietly.

'It was hard to get out! Apparently we're not allowed out of the common rooms after six now.' He informed Sherlock.

'Hmm. Good thing we're experienced at sneaking about then.' He grinned. John raised his eyebrows at him, the Ravenclaw was obviously in a good mood, and it didn't take a genius to know why.

'So. Got any ideas?'

Sherlock sighed. 'There's not really much to go on. And there's no chance of getting a look at where it happened seeing as the teachers have tidied up and didn't even mention where it happened.' He pouted slightly. 'But.' John grinned at him; it was amazing how the guy could always find something. 'Petrified. That's the key, it's a very specific type of incident. No student could do that to someone and there's precious few spells that do that anyway.'

'So you reckon a teacher did it?' Asked John incredulously. Sherlock shrugged.

'It's more likely than student.' He muttered. 'But still improbable. I really need to get a closer look at the victim – see if there's any clues to how it happened.' John nodded to show he was following.

'Ok. So we need to break in to the Hospital Wing.' John stated. Sherlock looked at him blankly.

'Break in?'

'Yeah. The Head's of Houses just came round to talk to us all in the common rooms. You must have missed it cos you were here.' John gestured around the room. 'So Dumbledore told _us_ that no one was allowed in the Hospital Wing, along with all the other new restrictions.' John grimaced. 'We have to be _escorted_ to each class by the teacher!' Sherlock was silent for a moment.

'Well. Only one way to do it then.' He said decisively. John looked at him confusedly.

'Oh. Oh no. We are not doing that again!' He said shaking his head and backing away from the taller wizard as it clicked.

'Why not? It's the only way.' Sherlock stood up and took a step toward John who backed away even more.

'No. Sorry no. I am never _ever_ doing that again.' The shorter wizard held his arms up in front of him. Sherlock stopped and sighed in frustration.

'Fine. Fine then. You hit me.' He stood loosely, and pointed at his face with one hand. John gaped at him.

'Seriously? You want _me_ to hit _you_?

'Yes. I know you don't want to but come on, just do it.'

John laughed. 'Don't want to do it? No I'd quite like to hit you, but if I do I mightn't be able to stop.' Sherlock looked at him perplexedly.

'Why do you _want_ to hit me?' He looked affronted.

'Has anyone ever told you that you're an annoying dick sometimes?' Asked John in mock curiosity. 'No. Look, can't you just cast a spell on yourself or something?' Sherlock glared at him, then whipping out his wand tapped it on his thigh menacingly. John flinched as the wand tip flashed past him.

'Nose-bleed? Too basic. Vomit? Too messy. Mutation? Could cause suspicion.' Sherlock muttered darkly to himself, pacing the small room and shooting pointed looks at John. The latter settled himself in a chair, pleased that he had got his point across. He hadn't fancied turning up at the Hospital Wing sporting an apparent example of muggle duelling _again_.

'How about an allergic reaction?' John suggested. 'You could have eaten some… I don't know, peanuts at lunch.' Sherlock gave him a withering glare.

'Peanuts?' He scoffed. 'Peanuts…' Staring into the middle-distance he repeated the word appraisingly. Then with sudden grin he turned to the blonde. 'John, you are a genius! Well, no you're not. But sometimes that average brain of yours comes up with fairly _brilliant_ ideas.' Prancing across the room, the dark haired wizard ruffled his friend's hair rather too energetically causing John to wriggle away, and escape over to the other side of the room looking positively dishevelled.

'Yeah, thanks.' Muttered John, attempting to smooth his hair. 'Do you remember that conversation we had about compliments? How they're supposed to be _nice_ to the recipient?' He tried to straighten his robes, looking across the room at the whirlwind of excitement that was Sherlock. The latter didn't even glance at him as he spun around the desks, waving his wand abstractly.

'Ok. So peanuts, swelling. Maybe Tumesco, or Conflunctious.' The Ravenclaw muttered to himself. John narrowed his eyes slightly; none of what Sherlock was saying sounded familiar.

'Sherlock. Wait. Are you making this up? You can't use a spell you've made yourself, it's not safe!'

'Yes I can. Creating a spell is basic, I'm sure even you could do it if you tried.'

'No. No, no, no. Sherlock, listen to me. How can you even know it will work?' The tall wizard sighed at him, rolling his eyes.

'Easy. An incantation is used as a tool for the wizard to concentrate his powers into a certain direction, much like how a wand is used, you don't need a wand but it allows for more accuracy and channels a wizards power. Any person with magical blood could in theory produce the desired magic without either a wand or an incantation. So, all I'm doing is providing myself with the necessary instruments.' Sherlock had gone into his monologue mode; barely taking breath the wizard stated his intentions to a rather perplexed John.

'The incantation must do two things. One: it must have some relativeness to the desired spell as my mind must be thinking of what I want the spell to achieve. Two: It must be more than normal speech, magic works best through a stronger language such as Latin. Therefore Conflunctuo, meaning to swell, and possibly coupled with Magnus, meaning large.' John looked at him, his mouth open. Sherlock looked back at him expectantly for a moment or two before sighing in exasperation.

'So… so, you're just finding some words that mean to swell up… and then…' John struggled to understand, if what Sherlock was saying was true, how come whenever he said a spell wrong the spell failed to work?

'Because you're expecting it not to work when you know you've said it wrong.' Sherlock stated. John sighed again, how did he do that?

'Right. Ok. Just don't test it on me first ok?'

'Don't need to. It'll work.' The Ravenclaw cleared his throat dramatically causing John to roll his eyes; then pointing his wand at his own face, Sherlock spoke quietly and clearly. '_Magnuso Confluctious_.' There was a bang, a flash of magenta light and a squeal of pain from Sherlock. John rushed forward, blinking away the afterimage of light.

'Sherlock! Sherlock, are you alright!?' He pulled the latter's hands away from his face and stared.

'Ow. Ow, I did not calculate the pain levels quite correctly it seems. Ow.' Sherlock patted his face gingerly. The spell had done its job magnificently; the once thin, pale face was swollen to unrecognisable proportions, the skin was red and shiny, and his clever eyes had disappeared into puffed-up slits. Unable to stop himself, John started to chuckle, then slapping a hand over his mouth he dissolved into laughter and staggered, bent double to lean himself against the wall. Sherlock looked at him incomprehensibly. Catching his eye, John collapsed onto the flagstones in hysterical laughter, tears pouring from his eyes. 'Uh John? John, I don't understand. It worked, _why are you laughing?_.'

'Oh Sherlock.' John gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. He sat up, hiccoughing slightly, the main hysterics finished. Sherlock offered him a hand and hauled him up off the dusty stone, still peering at him through swollen eyes.

'I need to go now. The spell probably doesn't have a too long life.' He explained to a still quietly chuckling John.

'Yup. Yup, right. So what's my story?' He replied rather weakly.

'We were just chatting, then I went like this.' He gestured at his face. 'And you were - _are _worried that it might get worse so you're taking me to the hospital wing.'

'Just that?'

'What's wrong with that?'

'Well… It's a bit basic isn't it?'

'Only lies have detail.'

'Ok. If you're happy.'

'Not particularly.'

John opened the door and ushered a slightly unsteady Sherlock out.

'I can't see properly.' Sherlock hissed in irritation.

'Your idea mate.' John grinned, grabbing his elbow and leading him in the correct direction.


	8. Chapter 8

Sneaking through the silent corridors, the pair made their way down to the Hospital Wing. John swallowed loudly causing Sherlock to turn and attempt to quirk an eyebrow at him.

'What is it?' He managed through a puffed-up mouth.

'It's weird. Only six but the place is deserted.' Whispered John, throwing a glance behind them. 'Aren't you worried we'll run into the petrifier?' He looked around again, unconsciously increasing his pace as he spoke. Sherlock tried to grin but it ended up as more of a grimace.

'It's fine. The _petrifier_ as you so eloquently put it is highly unlikely to strike again tonight.' They turned a corner and John jumped slightly as a suit of armour creakily turned its head, following them with its grated visor.

The blonde coughed quietly. 'How do you figure that one out?' He muttered, scowling back at the suit as they slunk past it.

'They were trying to make an impression, scare us. I believe the next move will be to send us some sort of message. So there will be no more action tonight, they are being delicate, testing the waters, making sure the reaction is what they were aiming for. Also, this type of action indicates a power play; they'll keep the school nervous, anticipating the next…' He trailed off, looking pleased. John frowned at him, he didn't like how his friend sounded so loving when he described this anonymous persons plans; he was reminded again how terrible Sherlock could be if he joined the other 'side'.

Sherlock had been staring at his feet as they walked, letting John lead him as his sight was so impaired. That was why he didn't see it first, but John did. The writing; high on the stone wall, letters two feet tall, in what could only be blood. John let out a gasp, his feet stopping of their own accord as his eyes widened, taking in the horrific message. Sherlock stumbled slightly, confused at why John had stopped.

'John? What is it?' He could sense something now, it was as if this corridor was cooler than the others, it felt…wrong. Realising that what he was feeling was most likely a magical trace he lifted his head, sniffing at the air; squinting up at the wall they faced.

'Um. Sherlock, that message you were just talking about… This it?' John's hand that wasn't gripping his friend's arm pointed up at the writing splattered across the wall. He felt irrationally proud that his fingers weren't shaking in the slightest. Sherlock growled in response.

'My eyes! I can't read it.' He spat in irritation. 'Read it.' Turning his stretched face to John he pointed at the writing himself, clicking his fingers impatiently. John cleared his throat doubtfully.

'Sherlock, I think we should go. If we get found here…'

'Read it!'

'Fine. But if we get in trouble it was all your idea.'

'It's always my idea.' Sherlock muttered. 'Now read it.'

John took a breath, the writing was scaring him slightly but he wasn't going to tell Sherlock that. To tell the truth he was actually enjoying this, the familiar rise in adrenaline, the knowledge that they were breaking rules, he did _love _this.

'The Chamber has been found. And by the Heir of Slytherin it is opened. The school will be purged of those unworthy.' John paused, reading the words seemed to make them alive, his chest felt icy and it was hard to draw breath. Sucking in all he could he finished in a rush. 'Enemies of the heir beware.' He coughed, suddenly feeling lighter, warmer. 'Whoa. That was weird.' He looked at Sherlock, massaging his own chest absentmindedly. Sherlock had been still while John spoke but know he moved suddenly, grabbing John's face in his hands. Used to the odd actions of his friend John let the taller wizard manhandle him. Sherlock pulled John's eyes open wider, peering at his pupils, then he let go, as suddenly as he had grabbed.

'Traces of possession.' He muttered. 'Pupils narrowed, inhalation affected. Hmmm, that's strong magic.' He sounded impressed.

'What! Possession!? Have I been possessed?' John grabbed Sherlock's shoulders in worried disbelief.

'No. Not fully, the writing was sure to have some form of dark spell upon it; there was a possession spell imbedded in the blood I assume, but weak – intended to add to the fear.' Sherlock told him matter-of-factly. John glared at him, gripping his shoulders tighter than strictly necessary.

'You. Knew.' He struggled through gritted teeth. Sherlock looked at him as innocently as he could with his face in such a condition.

'Well I needed to see what would happen! And it _is_ hard to read like this.' Sherlock defended himself. 'And your right.' He added turning away. John looked at him, confused.

'I'm right?' He questioned. Stepping after Sherlock he glanced back at the writing and shivered slightly.

'We do _not_ want to be found here.'

They made their way to the doors of the Hospital Wing without any further incident. Just before Sherlock knocked, John put his hand on the door.

'Are you going to tell them?'

'Can't. They can't know we were there.'

'So we just wait until someone else finds it?' Said John incredulously. Sherlock looked at him.

'Yes. We wait.' He replied, then looked pointedly at John's hand on the door until the latter removed it. John sighed, running a hand through his hair. Then as Sherlock knocked, the sound contrasting sharply with the muffled silence of the castle, John straightened his robes, placed a careful hand on Sherlock's shoulder and schooled his expression into a believable mask of worry.

Madam Pomfrey had let the two of them in suspiciously; she was flicking through an incredibly old book of counter-jinxes and kept throwing them distrustful glances. Sherlock was sat, perfectly relaxed on one of the scrupulously tidy beds, puffed up face and all. John stood awkwardly at his side, hands behind his back.

'Didn't take long to have you two back in here did it?' The matron shot at them, giving another suspicious look.

'Can't seem to keep out of trouble Miss.' Said Sherlock pleasantly, giving her what he probably thought was an ingratiating smile. He looked in pain. John was having issues controlling his giggles again, the look on Sherlock's face coupled with the extra stress of being in an out of bounds area seemed to be getting the better of him.

'And you say this was done by peanuts?' She said sceptically, gesturing at his face. 'It doesn't quite look like the usual allergic reaction.'

John let out a snigger and immediately turned his back, hiding his laughter in a violent coughing fit. Madam Pomfrey eyed him, frowning.

'You.' She said pointing at John. 'Should go back to your common room, it's late.' As John made a move to the door she intercepted him. 'No, you'll have to wait for another teacher to escort you Mr Watson.' Pulling her wand from her apron pocket she muttered something under her breath, a wisp of silver bled from the wand tip, solidifying it ran across the Hospital floor and through the locked doors. John didn't quite catch what it was, he looked at the spot it had dissolved through the door – it had definitely had four legs.

'Patronus.' Sherlock's whisper reached his ear and he turned.

'Oh right.' Understanding flooded John's face, closely followed by confusion. 'Sorry, what?' But Madam Pomfrey was within earshot now so Sherlock didn't reply. The Matron pointed her wand at Sherlock's swollen face muttering incantations, without effect it seemed.

'Well, it's definitely not a swelling jinx or a stinging hex.' She frowned. 'Must be allergic then.' She disappeared off into her office just as Professor Dumbledore let himself through the front doors.

John and Sherlock straightened in their respective positions; the Professor smiled at them and swept his way up the wing to the matron's office.

'Poppy, I'll escort Mr Watson up to Gryffindor tower now.' His quiet voice reached back to John and Sherlock. The shorter wizard looked at his friend.

'What are you going to do?' He whispered.

'I've made up a spell that should let down my face gently, it'll seem that her potions are working. But she'll keep me in here tonight.'

'And you'll have a look at O' Riley later tonight?' John had got over his aversion to made-up incantations.

'Yep.' They both looked over at the curtained off bed. It stuck out like a sore thumb in the otherwise empty wing.

'Right then. See you later.' John cleared his throat and looked up expectantly at Professor Dumbledore who was turning back around. The Professor exited the office followed by Madam Pomfrey who was holding a goblet and potion bottle.

'Mr Watson.' Dumbledore nodded at John and indicated him toward the door, a slight smile on his face. John stepped away from Sherlock and walked down the wing. He could swear he heard the Professor muttering 'clever' as he went past Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock looked at Professor Dumbledore and John's retreating backs in confused surprise. Had the Professor just winked at him?

Professor Dumbledore left John at the portrait hole. The Transfiguration teacher gave John a deep look, it felt almost as though he was being X-rayed.

'Bravery is a good a trait as any Mr Watson, but one should be careful. Especially in times such as these.' He gave the blonde a benign smile. 'I'm sure you'll keep an eye on Mr Holmes.'

'Yes. Ah, thank you Professor.' He found it hard to meet the bright blue gaze.

'Goodnight Mr Watson.'

'Professor.' John turned and scrambled through the portrait hole as Dumbledore swept away down the marble staircase.


	9. Chapter 9

Madam Pomfrey had left him a few moments ago, suitably pleased that his swelling had reduced due to her administration of potions; Sherlock had actually done it himself, muttering a counter-charm when her back was turned. The pain had lessened slightly also, this allowed Sherlock to think easier; pain always caused havoc with his mental capacity.

He could now notice the way the Matron unconsciously gave the curtained bed a wider berth than was necessary, how she jumped at any small noise, and stared cautiously into the shadowed corners of the Hospital Wing. She's scared, Sherlock thought, whatever Professor Dippet told the staff, or what they've found out must be _very_ dark magic. He was itching to get behind those rose patterned curtains, but he schooled himself, lying peacefully until Madam Pomfrey extinguished the lamps with a flick of her wand.

When he was absolutely certain she had gone to bed, Sherlock lifted back his covers, revealing the polkadot pyjamas he'd been forced to change into. Swinging long legs over the side of the bed, he crept slowly and silently across the room, feet sticking slightly to the cold linoleum. As he reached the curtains, Sherlock gave a last look over his shoulder toward the office, then he parted the material with one long, pale hand and slipped inside.

Even though he knew what to expect, the completeness of the petrification unnerved him slightly. O' Riley lay awkwardly on the bed, the sheets draped over him weirdly. It looked like he had been posed to run, one leg was lifted up and his arm was reached out, pointing toward the ceiling. His face was frozen into a mask of fear, eyes fixed on a non-existent point somewhere near his feet.

Sherlock stepped around the foot of the bed, coming up to the victim's side, peering down into the still face. He reached out a hand and gently swept his fingertips across O' Riley's face, his skin was cold, and as hard as rock; indeed it was as though his body had been transformed into stone, carefully carven in a perfect likeness.

Removing his hand, Sherlock moved to kneel at the edge of the bed, bringing his head closer so he could see every detail. It looked like the victim's entire body was frozen, as if time had stopped for them; Sherlock thought that when awakened he would probably remember nothing except seeing the perpetrator. The look of fear was interesting though; if pointed at his own height, Sherlock would have thought another person, but pointed at his feet… That indicated something else entirely.

-oOo-

'It wasn't a person.' Sherlock muttered to John under the cover of the class unpacking their books and settling down. It was the next day, their first class and Sherlock was bursting with news. John looked at him in excitement, then confusion for a moment until he understood.

'You mean the petrifier? How can it not have been a person?' John asked quietly.

'The eyes!'

'The…eyes…' John looked sideways at Sherlock. 'Eyes…Oh! You mean where he was looking?'

Sherlock looked at his friend proudly. 'Exactly John. If it had been a person he would be looking at eye height. But he wasn't. He was looking at the floor, or what would have been the floor when he was standing.'

John nodded. 'So what was he looking at?'

'I don't know.' Sherlock whispered as Professor Dumbledore walked past them up to the front desk. John ripped a piece of parchment from his bag and pulled out a pencil. Eyes on the teacher he scribbled a note to Sherlock: _Do you think that what he was looking at caused him to be petrified?_

Sherlock replied in his untidy script: _Obviously. _

_Just checking. But do you think someone made or controlled whatever he was looking at?_

_I think that would be most likely, yes. I need more data to get any further._

_So we check out what the Chamber of Secrets is supposed to be?_

_Yes. Library at lunch? Also need to look for what causes petrification as complete as this._

_Right. Did O' Riley look scared at all?_

_Very. Whatever he saw was frightening, that's also why I think a person is less likely, when you see someone the first reaction is not fear. He was also in the process of running, so his flight instincts must have been triggered._

John read the last note, then screwed up the parchment, putting it back into his bag. He returned his attention to transfiguration. Sherlock didn't seem quite there for the rest of the class but his wine glass was as perfect as usual, without the feathered brim John's attempt sported.

Sherlock left John for potions with a muttered: 'See you in the library.' John just nodded at him, feeling slightly worried at what could be hanging around the castle that made O' Riley so scared.

-oOo-

The lunch hour they spent in the library had been completely fruitless. In fact, Sherlock had got so incensed with the lack of information that he'd stormed off in a huff, leaving John to put back all the dog-eared tomes under the sharp eye of Madam Prince. When he'd finally tidied away the numerous books (The witch had made sure he put them in _exactly_ the right places. Breathing down his neck as she did so.) John hurried out of the oppressing silence of the library and paused a couple of feet down the corridor. He didn't know where to go, Sherlock could be anywhere, and it was almost time for Care of Magical Creatures anyway; hopefully the irritating Ravenclaw would be there.

Turning purposefully toward the entrance of the castle he began to walk; a tingling at the back of his neck made the blonde turn, eyes narrowed. He could almost feel the individual hairs on the back of his neck lifting. He scanned the corridor nervously, seeing nothing except some Slytherin seventh year stepping out of the library; the boy met his eyes momentarily, a small smile playing around the edges of his mouth, before he turned and strode off in the opposite direction. John stared after him for a second, trying to figure out what he was feeling; the Slytherin's face, that little smirk… _Well, Slytherin's are all a bit weird _he thought dismissively. Pulling his robes tighter around him, he picked up his pace.

-oOo-

Due to the speed he'd been walking, John got to Care of Magical Creatures quite early, they were studying Salamanders this week, and the huge crate they were kept in was situated near the greenhouses. The only other student there was a fellow Gryffindor, Rubeus. John had never really got past chatting terms with the guy, he tended to keep himself to himself, and his size was a bit daunting. Therefore, waiting for the rest of the class was slightly awkward. After saying hello, John stood a respectable distance away and kept his eyes fixed on the tiny rectangle that was the front doors to the castle, he was pretty sure he would recognise Sherlock's figure from this distance.

Rubeus swore loudly behind him, and John turned in surprise, 'Wha…' The massive wizard's bag had split, spilling an astounding amount of food across the ground between them. Rubeus was on his knees, hands the size of dinner plates attempting to sweep the variety of cooked meats back toward him; John quickly knelt down to help.

'What…why do you have all this in your bag?' John asked as he handed a couple of drumsticks back to him. The larger wizard shuffled uncomfortably, his face going red behind the scruffy dark hair.

'Ah, Well. It's jus', I get peckish sometimes…between meals, an yer know…' He trailed off, looking anywhere except at John who stared at him suspiciously.

He wasn't persuaded by the explanation, he didn't need Sherlock here to tell him the guy was obviously lying. The shifty eyes, fumbling fingers, and awkward stance, Rubeus was definitely hiding something. But then again, it was really none of John's business, sure the chap was a bit of an oddball, but what did you expect at a school of witches and wizards? He was just feeling tightly strung after that strange meeting outside the library; mentally shaking himself, he smiled up at the half-hidden face.

'Oh right! Yeah, I know what you mean, I'm always hungry in class.' John said brightly, hoping his lie wasn't as see through as Rubeus's had been. It seemed like it had worked, the massive frame relaxed, the hands relinquished their death-grip on the broken bag. John even thought he saw a relieved grin behind the dark hair.

'Here come the res' of them.' The deep voice rumbled, John turned and saw a line of black-clad students winding their way across the open lawns. Searching for Sherlock, John heard the deep voice mumbling 'Reparo' behind him. Relieved to see the tall angular form making walking slightly apart from the rest of the students, John turned back to Rubeus. His bag was as good as new, no sign of the odd amounts of food from previously, John smiled at him again, not being able to think of anything to say. He leant against the thick, wooden crate and waited for Sherlock.

_**A.N. Thanks for reading, I hope you like it Please review!**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**A.N. Sorry for the massive gap, I sort of lost my motivation… But here is another chapter! Although not much happens.**_

Sherlock was staring down at his toast; it was 8 o'clock in the morning on Saturday and he was lost in thought. He hadn't seen John since Care of Magical Creatures yesterday, and he may have been a bit distracted…He couldn't remember if he'd actually spoken to him; feeling slightly guilty the tall wizard sighed. He needed John; but John would be grumpy. Sherlock was coming to realise the effect the shorter wizard had on him, it was always easier to think around him, to solve the problems. Sighing again, he stood, leaving his uneaten toast to congeal at the table.

John made his way down the marble staircase toward the Great Hall, he was looking forward to his first cuppa and had decided that toast and kippers would really hit the spot this morning. The blonde was slightly annoyed with his friend, but that was just what Sherlock was like. Still, a quiet breakfast without the temperamental idiot would be nice.

Busy thinking about the pile of homework he had to finish this weekend, John reached the bottom of the stairs. Frowning at the thought of the two foot essay on goblin wars that was waiting for him upstairs, the blonde nearly walked into Sherlock before he noticed him.

'Sherlock! Good morning.' John smiled, trying to look pleased as his plans for a quiet breakfast dissolved in front of him.

'John. We need to talk, I've found some new data and…'

'No no no. Not so fast mate. I haven't even had my morning tea yet.' John interrupted him quickly. The brunet looked slightly taken aback that John hadn't grasped the importance of his news.

'But…'

'No. Seriously. Look, how about I meet you down by the lake in half an hour or so?'

'Half an…! Fine.' The pale wizard pouted at him, then spun on his heel and stalked out of the front doors. John looked after him for a moment then turned into the Hall, the smell of bacon and toast expelling almost all other thoughts from his head. He couldn't deny it though, he was as keen to find out what Sherlock had found as his friend was to tell him. But he wasn't like Sherlock; he couldn't function on no sleep, barely enough food to feed a bird and all that rushing about it. He settled down at the Gryffindor table and pulled every dish within arm's reach toward himself, determined to enjoy his breakfast.

However, barely 20minutes later, John was out the front doors, striding toward the lake with a spare piece of toast in his hand which he hadn't quite finished. Seeing Sherlock's figure pacing backward and forward on the near side of the cold-looking lake, John upped his pace slightly and scrambling down onto the shingle, stuffed the last morsel of toast into his mouth.

Sherlock turned at the sound of disturbed pebbles, saw John and strode over. His dark cloak blew out behind him in the chilly breeze that ruffled the surface of the lake, John shivered, he wished he'd stopped and brought a cloak. The sun was hidden behind angry looking clouds and the lake was dark and uninviting, looking over at the far bank he saw the Whomping Willow's bare branches swaying deceptively in the light wind.

'Well, that wasn't quite the full half-hour was it?' Said Sherlock, grinning crookedly.

'Oh shut up.' Muttered John, hunching his shoulders inside his knitted jumper. 'Go on. Tell me what's so bloody important that it could hardly wait until I'd finished eating.'

Sherlock took a deep breath, peering out over the grey lake. 'Well, I know that the victim was petrified by some sort of object or magical creation which was controlled by a wizard. This wizard, or witch, is from Slytherin and has a plan to remove from the school all of those deemed unworthy to study magic.' He looked sideways at John. 'Those that are Muggleborn…'

John frowned at him. 'Why is it such a big thing to be Muggleborn!?' He asked, feeling angry at his blood status and confused why it was such a big deal. Sherlock didn't answer him immediately, John felt his heart sinking, did Sherlock think there was something wrong with it too? Was he about to tell him that he didn't want to be friends anymore? There had always been a few students who made it obvious they were against 'mudbloods' but he had thought Sherlock didn't care; it was true that some of his fellow Ravenclaws had looked down on their friendship and sneered at him. It had never really bothered him before but if Sherlock…

'There are some Wizarding families who believe magic can only be passed down by direct wizarding parentage; they feel that those wizards or witches with non-magical parents are reducing the purity of our world by making a connection with the muggle world. It's really the classic human hierarchy though: we like to have people below us to make us feel more important.' He paused, giving John a quick look. John was still scowling, hugging himself against the cold.

'So they just think we're _impure_, even though we can do the exact same magic.' He snorted.

'Yes. It has absolutely no basis in fact and is frankly, I think, a ridiculous theory.' Sherlock spoke distastefully. 'Obviously there is some genetic change that creates magical blood or there are some traces of magical blood within the family tree of a muggleborn.' He looked at John again, Sherlock knew he should say something comforting or reassuring to John but he had no clue how to start. Swinging his arms slightly, he peeked another look at the disgruntled blonde beside him, then clearing his throat he spoke.

'Look. John.' The blonde looked up at him with furrowed brows. 'It's a stupid idea that some posh, '_pureblood'_ wizard thought up to give himself more power. Don't let it bother you because you are a better wizard than many purebloods and anyone that thinks it's a problem is an idiot.' He smiled brightly at his friend, Sherlock thought he had done quite a good job there, he'd even thrown in a complement because John had told him they were good.

'Yeah. I guess.' John looked at him strangely. Sherlock didn't drop his bright grin. 'Ok, you can stop smiling now, it's a little creepy.' Sherlock's face immediately turned to normal.

They stood beside each other on the damp stones, looking out over the choppy water in companionable silence. As they watched, a lone tentacle broke the surface and swayed there for a moment as if testing the air before sliding smoothly beneath the dancing water again. It didn't come up again.

John broke the silence. 'So, did you get anything on the Chamber of Secrets?'

'Yup. I went and did some of my own research, it's a legend; apparently there is a secret chamber built by Salazar Slytherin within the school which contains a deadly creature. But no one has ever found it and there have been extensive searches…It could just be a myth.' He sighed.

'But don't myths generally have some basis in real events?' Thought John aloud. Sherlock nodded beside him.

'It could be one theory, but due to the lack of evidence we can't look at it as the only explanation. It could just be someone trying to make it look like the Chamber legend.' Sherlock clasped his hands beneath his chin. 'And I can't find anything about petrifying! There are plenty of creatures that kill but none that petrify, and no spells that I can find that do it either.' He sounded frustrated, John just groaned sympathetically.

'If it was a magical creature though, how could it be getting around the castle? Isn't it more likely a person did it?' John was trying to think how Sherlock's theories involving animals would work out but could see one massive flaw.

Of course Sherlock had thought of that already. 'The castle is a perfect place really, it's so old, the walls are thick and there is no way there could be people in every corridor all the time.'

'So you reckon it would be quite easy to hide a giant monster in the school?'

'Yes. I tested it last afternoon.'

'Oh. Um, how?'

'I brought a Niffler inside and attempted to keep it out of sight or teachers and students alike. It was surprisingly simple.' Sherlock stated. John gaped at him for a moment, then thinking it through he closed his mouth. It was Sherlock, of course he'd tested his theory by touring a magical creature around the castle.

John shivered again, thinking about a giant monster stalking through the castle. Sherlock noticed and spun on his heel, turning up the bank and back toward the castle. John jumped slightly at his sudden movement, then turned and followed him. He was forced to jog because of the speed his friend was going, but was glad they were returning as his fingers had gone white.

_**A.N. Please review! Tell me what you think, any ideas ect **_


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